


can i go where you go

by ashlearose13



Series: you're my, my, my, my, lover [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Natasha Romanov, House Hunting, Sexy Times, Unplanned Pregnancy, idk how that happened but we have it now, oh my god it's finally finished, this is clint and natasha trying to be adults and it's cute, yes it's a baby fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/pseuds/ashlearose13
Summary: Clint and Natasha start with buying a house. Somehow, the rest of their life begins at the same time.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Series: you're my, my, my, my, lover [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740784
Comments: 11
Kudos: 113





	can i go where you go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarlettShel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettShel/gifts).



> omg this took much longer than i ever anticipated but i'm so happy with the finished product! this is actually a (very belated) happy birthday present to my beautiful friend Shelby! (@clintasherson on twitter) i hope you like it ♥w♥ honestly this fic took a turn from what i had planned but it did make me cry bc i thought it was so sweet. this has become another installment in "what-taylor-swift-songs-remind-me-of-clintasha" so stream Lover lmao
> 
> anyway ENJOY!! let me know what you think xx

> we could leave the christmas lights up til january.
> 
> this is our place, we make the rules
> 
> and there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear.
> 
> have i known you twenty seconds, or twenty years?
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, "Lover"

Clint takes one look at the eggplant coloured feature wall and decides that he hates the house. Before that he _had_ liked the tiles in the bathroom and the minimalistic office and even the fake fireplace in the first living room, despite it being a complete waste of space. But the purple wall is too much. He can't even _pretend_ that he likes it, and purple is his colour.

Natasha makes the kind of displeased noise that means he will probably regret voicing his opinion for the rest of the day, if not the rest of the month. When he turns to face her she’s pouting so hard she could win an Oscar for her performance, but he sees right through it. He always sees right through it.

“It’s _purple_ , Nat.”

“You can paint over a wall, Barton.”

He shrugs and glances around the room again. “But I’ll know that it was like this once.”

Natasha drops the pout and adorns a scowl that would send weaker men to their knees. “That’s why you’re saying no to this house?”

“Maybe the fake fireplace has a little something to do with it,” he admits. Natasha rolls her eyes and Clint hurries to explain. “It’s useless. What are you gonna do with a fireplace you can't light?”

“You turn the heater on,” Natasha deadpans.

Clint sighs. “It just takes up _so much_ room. Plus, if we had a real fire you could toast marshmallows. Or read a book in front of it.”

“Is this your way of telling me you want a fireplace?” Natasha asks. She takes a sip of her complimentary open house champagne and runs a finger over the dresser. Clint had thought she wouldn’t like the house either but he learns something new about Natasha almost every time he’s with her.

Deciding to move in together hadn’t been a hard decision to make, and it wasn’t like it was really the first time they would be living with each other anyway. SHIELD rooms were big enough for two if you squeezed and they were sneaky, especially at the beginning; not sneaky enough to get past Coulson, but then they had never tried to hide much from him anyway. It was impersonal and fine, and probably would have continued to be fine if the whole New York thing hadn’t happened and turned their lives upside down.

Staying at the Tower has its perks, too. Clint has his own floor with a bunch of cool gadgets he has no idea how to use and free alcohol that was also _expensive_ free alcohol. Pepper was courteous, which by extension made Tony slightly less annoying, and everyone kept mostly to themselves. But it was still weird having so many people around and he had to go down three whole floors just to get to Natasha’s room, so. There were only so many times he could ride the elevator with Thor before it became monotonous.

“I wouldn’t mind a fireplace,” Clint shrugs.

Natasha casts her eyes around the master bedroom one last time, then sets her glass down and turns to leave the room. “Okay.”

Clint frowns and jogs to catch up to her. “Okay what?”

“Okay,” she repeats. They pass another rich elderly couple as they walk out of the house, and Clint fights the urge to roll his eyes. He knew they were the wrong demographic for this neighbourhood. “We’ll get a house with a real fireplace.”

“Oh,” Clint blinks. “It’s that easy?”

Natasha smiles at him over the roof of the car. “It’s a fireplace, Barton. How hard could it possibly be?”

The next house has a real fireplace but Natasha screws her nose up at something wrong with the ceiling, and it’s sometime between then and the fourth house with a fireplace that Clint realises it’s not going to be as easy as they had hoped. It’s not even like he’s actively looking for faults, because he just wants to move in with Natasha and finally have a place that’s all their own. Plus, speaking to realtors is _annoying_.

Natasha drapes herself over the single bed in the spare bedroom, shoes still on and all. Clint stands by the door and makes sure no one is heading in their direction, but the house isn’t as nice as some of the others they viewed and isn’t nearly as busy. He had actually liked this ones fireplace, at least.

“This is impossible,” Natasha moans. She’s facedown on the pillow, red curls spread like a ring of fire around her head. There’s a bruise on the back of her neck from her latest mission but Clint is more concerned about the bedding not being clean.

“We’ve only looked at like, five houses?” Clint offers. “There’s plenty more.”

“Eleven,” Natasha corrects, then turns her head so she can see him. “ _Impossible_.”

Clint pushes away from the wall and sits by her hip. “We can always get an apartment or something. Probably would be easier.”

Natasha rolls onto her side and scratches at the butterfly stitches holding the skin above her left eyebrow together. Clint lets his hand fall on her belly, feels the taught muscles jump slightly beneath his touch. He knows she doesn’t really want an apartment for the same reason he doesn’t really want an apartment. It’s harder to get away when there are still people above and below you.

“It _would_ be easier,” she muses. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Are you having fun right now?” Clint teases, and she slaps at his thigh half-heartedly. “C’mon, we’ll get there eventually. Isn’t this what normal adults do?”

“ _I’m_ a normal adult,” Natasha says, even though she looks a lot like a kid who’s fallen over and smacked her head. “You’re a child. You don’t do the dishes.”

“You leave your clothes all over your room,” he counters. “Don’t get me started, Romanoff.”

Something in Natasha’s expression softens, and he’s reminded of how much he really, truly loves her. It doesn’t take much these days; a secret smile only meant for him, a dirty note shoved into the pocket of his mission pack, his favourite pizza waiting on the counter or her searching fingers in the middle of the night as she unconsciously draws him closer. There are so many layers to her and he’s lucky enough to get to buy a _house_ with her.

“You can’t lay on the bed,” the realtor suddenly says from the doorway, interrupting Clint’s train of thoughts. “This is someone’s home.”

Natasha glares at him but still takes his hand and pulls him out of the room after her, and by the time they’ve reached the car she’s laughing with him, the smile on her face wider and just for him.

It’s a month later and they’re driving down some back road in Missouri when Clint sees the sign stuck in the ground at the end of a long-ass driveway. He glances out the window, trying to catch a peek of the house, but it’s hidden behind a bunch of trees and is just too far away to make out properly.

Beside him, Natasha has her feet up on the dash, head against the window as she taps away on her phone. They’re on their way back from a pretty shit mission, even though neither of them was seriously hurt and they did the job they needed to. It was tedious and long and resulted in probably more civilian lives than they had planned for, and he knows it’s weighing on both of their shoulders. He just wants to get to the airport so they can haul ass out of there.

Still, he finds himself turning the car around and heading back towards the driveway. Natasha lifts her head to see what he’s doing but doesn’t question it as the car moves from paved road onto gravel. There’s paddocks and even more trees, a dilapidated barn and a rusty tractor in the front yard. The house is double storeyed with peeling paint and a wrap around porch, and Clint’s brain is far too tired to think anything other than, _what the fuck_.

“Worth a look,” Natasha says eventually. She unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out of the car, and Clint doesn’t miss the way she closes her eyes and rubs her temples for a moment. She’s just as exhausted as he is.

He gets out too and stretches, breathes in the sharp smell of cow shit and fresh air. “We don’t have to.”

Natasha shrugs. “We’re here now.”

They take the porch steps one at a time and knock experimentally on the door. There’s no answer, not that he’s surprised, but Natasha wants to look so she picks the lock and then they’re in the front room, staring at the inside of a house that needs more work than Clint has time for.

“It’s Missouri,” he says to Natasha’s back as she enters the kitchen. The walls are pale yellow, the living room large and sunlit. There’s a staircase that he can’t be bothered climbing and a downstairs bedroom. “It needs a lot of work.”

Natasha ignores him and heads for the stairs. Clint takes a seat on the couch, one of the only pieces of furniture left in the house, and looks out through the window at the barn. They wanted a house that didn’t need work, a house that was fancy enough that they wouldn’t have to re-adjust after living in Stark’s Tower. Besides, Clint figures they deserve something nice for once.

His gaze lands on the fireplace; a huge, old-fashioned thing, with an iron grate and a poker he could definitely kill someone with. It suits the house, he realises vaguely, then wonders exactly when he started noticing that kind of thing. Maybe he’s getting old. Are they _both_ getting old?

“Tasha?” he calls out. There’s no reply, and the tiniest hint of alarm coils his stomach. He still groans as he stands up though, not in the mood to climb the stairs.

The second floor has a main bedroom with an ensuite, and there’s another separate bathroom too, but he finds her in a third spare room, standing in front of a large window that faces the yard. Her eyes are closed again, face turned up to the sun, and something about the image of her there makes his heart literally skip a beat.

He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest. “Nat?”

Clint already knows what she’s going to say. They’re bruised in more ways than one and a little unsure about where they stand in the world now. Getting a house together isn’t just about being on their own: it’s about having some place to go when it’s all too much, something to focus on that’s not just death and pain. A house like this would be the perfect distraction, even if Clint’s not really much of a handy man.

He can picture it, though. It’s the first time he’s been able to picture something out of all the houses they’ve looked at. He knows it’s all to do with the way Natasha looks in front of the window, they way the sun lights up her features and makes her hair glow. Safe, off the grid. It has more rooms than they need but he’s sure they’ll find a use for them.

She finally glances over her shoulder at him. “Missouri’s not that far from New York, right?”

Clint’s at the Tower’s range when Tony inevitably asks the question. “So, you and Red?”

Steve glances up from where he’s cleaning a gun, because apparently even Captain America has to refresh his firearms competency. Clint doesn’t really need a person in a suit to tell him if he can still shoot as straight as he could six months ago, but it’s SHIELD regulation and breaking that rule is old news. The disaster mission is still heavy on his mind, anyway. Shooting some targets is always a good way to relieve stress.

He lines up his shot and fires another perfect bullseye. “What?”

Tony sighs dramatically and leans his hip against the glass divider. “You and our favourite Soviet are _obviously_ up to something.”

“We’re always up to something,” Clint replies smoothly. “We work for a secret spy agency.”

“Not what I meant,” Tony snaps. He points at Steve accusatorily. “Cap noticed it too.”

“Noticed what?” Steve asks, setting his gun down. “Don’t drag me into this Stark. It’s none of our business.”

“If I was a lesser man I would admit that Jarvis has reported you on her floor five times in the last week,” Tony says. Clint’s a little more used to him spying on them now, but it still makes him bristle. “Good thing I’m not a lesser man.”

“Left my vest in her tac bag,” Clint says. “Needed it for Fresno last Wednesday.”

“What was in Fresno?” Steve says, but Tony cuts him off with a wave of his arm.

“That doesn’t explain the other four times.”

It was definitely more than five times, but Natasha thinks messing with Tony is hilarious and finds great pleasure in listening to Clint complain about his nosiness. She has some kind of deal with Jarvis that not even Clint understands, because Jarvis is an AI system and shouldn’t be as easily manipulated as he is, but. He leaves her to her fun and puts up with Stark just to hear the laughter in her voice later.

“Twice I went to finish mission reports. Fourth time I was borrowing salt,” Clint explains. “The fifth time I was giving her the blueprints for Mexico City.”

“What’s in Mexico City?” Steve says.

None of it’s true, except for the bit about the salt, but Tony doesn’t need to know that. They don’t share their lives with anyone, even people they occasionally save the world with. Clint likes it that way. It’s the one secret he actually _wants_ to keep.

“Something is happening,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes. “How long have you worked together, anyway?”

“Thought you would’ve read our files,” Clint retorts. He has the target come back to him so he can retrieve his arrows. “Isn’t that your thing?”

“Only when I can _access_ said files,” Tony replies, but he doesn’t sound mad.

“We met like, ten years ago.” Clint allows him this tiny piece of information, mainly so he can escape the range sooner rather than later. “Coulson started our Strike Team two years after that.”

“That’s a long time to know someone,” Tony pushes. “What do you think, Cap?”

“I’m a little more concerned that SHIELD is still running missions through the two of you without consulting the rest of us,” Steve says.

Clint sighs. “We still _work_ for SHIELD, Rogers. Take it up with them.”

He takes his quiver and bow and heads for the door before either of them can say anything else. He’s not entirely sure how he’s going to explain leaving the Tower when it feels like he only just got there, and it’s not like he actually dislikes the company of the others. It’s just a lot to deal with all the time.

He thinks about going to Natasha’s floor until he remembers Jarvis and the conversation they literally just had. He punches in the button for his own floor instead, heads up and up and up, safe in the knowledge that no one has the slightest clue about the run down house in Buttfuck Nowhere, Missouri.

“I told Pepper we’re moving in together.”

Clint doesn’t choke on his beer, but he comes very close to it. “What?”

“I told Pepper we found a house,” Natasha repeats. She has her feet in his lap, nail polish in hand while she waits for him to finish his dinner. “So now she wants to throw a party.”

“Of course she does,” Clint mutters. “You know I just spent half my day trying to get Stark off our back?”

Natasha smirks. “They would find out soon enough.”

“I don’t know what kind of spy you are…” Clint teases, then yelps as she digs her heel into his thigh. He sets his empty plate aside and accepts the nail polish from her. “Fine. So we’re having a party then.”

Natasha hums her acknowledgment and lets her head fall back against the couch cushion. They’re on his floor tonight, and had actually cooked dinner considering Clint now has the saltshaker. He supposes they’ll have to get used to cooking, since he’s positive delivery won’t reach the farm.

“The farm,” he snorts, hands remaining steady as he applies the pink polish to Natasha’s toes. “We own a farm.”

“We almost own a farm,” Natasha corrects. “Who would have thought?”

Clint definitely never saw this coming. Dragging an angry Russian spy into SHIELD ten years ago had just been part of the job, and yet he can't really remember when it stopped being part of the job. He’s glad they don’t really celebrate anniversaries because it’s probably five years but could be six. It feels like forever of loving her.

“Not me,” he says softly. “You know, we probably won’t really be able to live there properly. Not unless we reduce missions or something.”

“So maybe buying a house in Missouri wasn’t the best idea,” Natasha shrugs. “I need to schedule a trip to Paris to check some accounts. Financially we’re fine, at least.”

“Financially _you’re_ fine,” Clint says.

“Which by association makes _you_ financially fine.”

Clint isn’t about to argue with her about money again. It’s generally the least of their worries, because terrorists and alien species are of a much higher concern these days, but still. He doesn’t remember the last country he opened an account in. Did he even file his taxes last year?

“Besides,” Natasha continues flippantly. “Maybe I want a break.”

Clint stops painting her nails to give her a pointed look. “You? Take a break?”

“This is all I’ve ever done,” she says softly. Something in her expression changes just enough for Clint to squeeze her foot in reassurance. “And it might be nice to… learn how to do something else.”

“Guess we can get into logistics or something,” Clint suggests. “Do shit from home, come in when they need us.”

“It was too normal to pass up.” Natasha cocks her head to the side, lips twitching at the corners. “It’s off the grid. We just need to install a security system and it’ll be a home.”

“Hey, it even has a real fireplace.”

“I like the windows,” Natasha tells him. “There’s so much sunlight.”

The Tower has more windows than Clint can ever hope to count, but it’s not the same thing. If they’re not on one of their floors then they're at the range, or in the communal living area that Tony forces them to watch movies in. Clint doesn’t mind movie night, even with Steve’s incessant questions and Tony’s snarky responses. It usually makes Natasha sleepy, and on more than one occasion the two of them have fallen asleep on the couch before the movies over.

“What’re we gonna do with all those spare rooms?” he asks. He blows lightly on her toes just to watch her screw her nose up. “We don’t have enough stuff to store.”

“An armoury,” Natasha says seriously. “We have plenty of weapons.”

“Guess we could have an office or something,” he muses. “In case we ever decide to stop writing reports on the couch.”

Natasha gives him an incredulous look. “One thing at a time, Barton.”

Clint finishes her other foot and she pulls her knees to her chest so she can examine her toes. His nail painting skills are almost as good as his archery at this point. Tony will never know that he’s been painting her nails since before their Strike Team was formed.

The polish dries quickly and Natasha flips herself over so she can rest her head on his lap instead. They have time off next week to head back over to the farm, and Fury is working on wiping it completely from any records. It’s starting to feel normal and Clint isn’t really used to it, but he thinks he can learn. He learns something new with Natasha everyday, even after all these years.

“I think Pepper finally likes me again,” Natasha admits after a moment.

Clint tears his eyes away from the TV to look down at her. “Oh yea?”

“She invited me to go shopping, actually,” Natasha says. “It sounds nice.”

“Furniture shopping?” Clint asks.

“You don’t get out of it that easily,” Natasha smiles. “I might find some things though. I’ve never bought anything for a house before.”

“Neither have I,” Clint says. “Huh. This is kinda crazy.”

“It’s not the craziest thing you’ve ever done. Remember Madrid and the –”

Clint puts a finger over her lips to stop her. “We don’t need to talk about Madrid.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and resettles her head in his lap, and they fall back into the easy silence they are used to. He tries to imagine what it would be like to be sitting in front of a fireplace, the flames crackling softly, but it still feels a little out of reach.

Natasha hands him a coffee and swings her bag of groceries onto the bench top. The trip into town and back is long enough that the coffee’s cold now, but he’s still thankful for the kick it gives him. He swipes his arm across his forehead and catches some stray droplets of sweat. Building is _hard_.

“I was thinking we could knock out this wall between the kitchen and lounge,” Clint says, gesturing around the room. “The plan says it’s not load-bearing, so it should be easy enough. Might open it up a bit more down here.”

“I like it,” Natasha says. “Do you want to do it now?”

Natasha with a sledgehammer is a sight Clint won’t forget for a long time. It takes the better part of their day to get the wall down and the debris cleared but he was right; the space it creates is worth the sweat and the five splinters they get between them. It’s only their first day at the farm and he thinks they’ve spent it productively enough to warrant an early night, so they squeeze into the shower and then pass out in sleeping bags on the living room floor.

The next day Natasha ties her hair up in a bun and sets to work repainting upstairs. Clint leaves her to it and starts fixing the broken steps on the porch. The house is theirs, signed for and officially non-existent thanks to SHIELD, and it still doesn’t feel real. It’s a farm in the middle of nowhere, the complete opposite of what they had originally been looking for. Clint’s not really sure how they got from there to here.

“I think the second floor is fine as it is,” Natasha says. She leans against the railing and opens a bottle of water, drinking half in a gulp. There are flecks of paint across her shoulders that shine like freckles in the sun. “Our bedroom door needs an oil, and I might sand back the chest of… what?”

Clint grins up at her. “ _Our_ bedroom.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, then recaps the water bottle and tosses it down to him. “We’ve been sharing a bed for years.”

“This is different,” Clint says. He finishes the water and surveys his handiwork: the porch steps look almost brand new, even without a fresh coat of paint. “This is _our_ bedroom in _our_ house on _our_ farm.”

“We were looking at mansions,” Natasha says forlornly, but Clint knows the feeling isn’t really behind her tone. “I was going to have a spa bath.”

“Still _can_ have a spa bath,” Clint says. “Our spa bath. The upstairs bathroom is big enough for it.”

Natasha shields her eyes and looks out over the yard, focusing on the tattered tire swing that hangs from a tree branch near the barn. Neither of them has even looked in the barn yet, but Clint knows it will probably take months of hard work to clean it up properly, and they just don’t have the time at the moment.

“I like it here,” Natasha says eventually. “Nothing is expected of me.”

Clint pushes himself off the bottom step and moves until he can just squeeze her fingers. She grins and then pulls him after her into the house, letting the wire door slam shut behind them. He can feel the calluses on her hand from years of gun use and the one time some terrorists used her palm as an ashtray. It seems oddly fitting in their hodgepodge house.

“Lunch time?” Clint asks hopefully, and then frowns as she leads him away from the kitchen and up the staircase. “Awww Tasha. I’m hungry.”

“Look,” Natasha says, stopping at the top of the landing and holding her arms out wide. “I did all of this.”

Clint looks around at the new paint, then wanders through the main bedroom and the other spare rooms. Everything is fresh and white except for the room with the large window; she’s kept it pale yellow, and it looks like the sun’s rays are shining all over the walls. He feels her stop behind him before she speaks.

“I really like this room. It’s warm.”

“You could turn this into a library,” he replies just as softly. “You can buy as many books as you want now.”

Natasha hums in his ear, then runs her hands up his back and over his shoulders so she can press herself against him. “I didn’t bring you up here just to look at the paint.”

Clint turns so he can see her, and she rests her chin on his chest, grinning devilishly. He leans down to kiss her gently, paint fumes making him lightheaded as she deepens their embrace. Her hair has come loose around her face so he gently brushes it away, fingers grazing across her cheekbones and down her neck.

“What’re you’re intentions then?” he mumbles against her lips.

“Christen _our_ bedroom,” she breathes. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with a new house?”

Clint doesn’t think its worth his time replying, so he hoists her up and swallows the abrupt laughter that bursts from her lips. It’s not an easy trek to the bedroom but he makes it without slipping once on the plastic she’s covered the floors with, and then they collapse in a heap of limbs and hot kisses, Natasha tearing his flannel open without so much as a warning.

“I like this shirt,” he protests as she tosses it away from them.

“It stinks,” Natasha says, and somehow it’s still one of the hottest things he’s ever heard.

She shimmies out of her pants, and then wraps her legs around his middle and drags him in for the filthiest kiss of his life, sucking his tongue and grinding against him until Clint forgets every job he still has to do, every mission they’re expected to go back to after the week is over. It doesn’t matter that there’s no bed to make it _official_ official. They can just do it again later.

Later, Clint stands in the yard and chops firewood, hoping to have enough for the night and maybe even for the rest of the week. Natasha wears one of his other flannels and watches him from the porch, hands curled around a cup of tea with the fading light softening her edges. Every time he glances at her she smiles.

They carry the wood into the house, dumping it on the floor since they don’t actually have anywhere to store it yet. Natasha had cleaned out the chimney earlier, somehow finding the time between the bedroom sex and the shower sex to climb onto the roof and dislodge a whole range of shit. The living room floor is covered in ash and soot but it’s worth it for a cosy night.

Natasha pads around behind him, still only wearing his flannel and a pair of fuzzy socks. She offers him a warm beer then sinks down next to him, stretching her bare legs out in front of her. “How goes dinner?”

Clint finishes quartering an apple and adds it to their paper plates. “ _Bon appétit_ , princess.”

“ _Merci_ ,” she hums.

Dinner is an apple split between the two of them, a bag of BBQ chips, crusty bread with raspberry jam and American cheese that Clint’s twisted to resemble a rose. It’s not the worst thing they’ve eaten by far, and since Clint knows for a fact that Natasha can't keep jam off her face he looks forward to her sugary kisses before bed. The fire is warm on their faces, and Clint decides that it was definitely worth the hassle to find this feeling.

They don’t say much; Clint rubs absently at Natasha’s neck until her head falls onto his shoulder, hands loosening around her plate. It took them longer than anyone will ever know to get to where they are now: months of sleep deprivation during missions, neither of them trusting the other enough to fall asleep properly. Now, all it takes is a soft touch. Tony Stark can think what he wants of them, but he’ll never get to see this.

Clint stays that way for a while, listening to Natasha’s breath in his ear. The night outside is dark and quiet, and when he looks out the window he can actually see stars. He’s spent too much time in New York, but now his shoulders ache in a new way and he’s got the smell of paint permanently stuck up his nose, and it’s exactly what he’s been missing without even knowing it.

“Tasha,” he whispers eventually, moving her plate off her lap. “You ready for bed?”

Natasha turns into him and presses a sweet, raspberry flavoured kiss to the corner of his mouth. “No bed.”

“Right here, sweetheart,” he says, and gently eases her down onto her sleeping bag. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

She’s already asleep again, smudges of ash and jam on her cheeks. Clint pokes around the fireplace for another minute or two before he lays beside her in his own sleeping bag. He stares at the ceiling and listens to the crickets outside, and for the first time since seeing the house, it feels a little more like _home_ for him.

Steve gives Clint a pointed look. “You and Natasha, huh?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Not you too, Cap.”

Pepper’s party isn’t as bad as Clint thought it would be. No one else really knows what it’s for, but Natasha’s getting _drunk_ drunk and Clint feels like he might just do the same. They’ve had a busy month so he figures they at least deserve to drink as much of Tony’s alcohol as humanely possible.

“Natasha’s leaving, isn’t she?” Steve asks. “Figured you would be going with her.”

“She’s just not gonna be here permanently.” Clint doesn’t ask how Steve knows. “We’re still gonna be working for SHIELD.”

“You’re going too though, right? That’s how you guys work.”

Clint frowns. “I dunno what you mean.”

Steve gestures to Natasha, who’s standing on the other side of the room wearing a dress that literally takes Clint’s breath away. As soon as his gaze lands on her she looks up and smiles, then waves a little to Steve. Clint can tell she’s already well beyond tipsy by the way her fingers twitch around her glass.

“You two are, you know…” Steve trails off, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. Clint’s not sure how much booze it takes to get Captain America drunk, though the reaction would probably be the same even if Steve were sober. “ _Partners_.”

“Yes,” Clint says slowly. He has to have missed some vital piece of information here. “We’re partners. We have a Strike Team.”

“Yea, but its… you know,” Steve struggles. “You wouldn’t have stuck around if it wasn’t for her.”

“Would you have wanted me here?” Clint asks, even if he already knows the answer. After Loki, things had been strained. Natasha had fought tooth and nail to just get him through the front door of the Tower.

“Guess we’ll never know,” Steve muses, and takes a sip of beer. “Anyway, you know what I mean. I respect whatever is going on. You’re a good agent, Clint.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Rogers,” Clint chuckles. He catches another glimpse of Natasha as she slides onto the couch beside Pepper, her cheeks flushed and her face lit in a smile. It’s fake, but it’s a smile nonetheless, and he knows that everyone will fall for it tonight.

“Natasha is surprising,” Steve suddenly says. “I never know who she really is.”

“It’s called being a spy,” Clint deadpans. “It’s her _job_.”

“Whatever,” Steve laughs. “You _are_ leaving too though, right? That’s what this whole thing is about?”

Clint gets the feeling that Steve doesn’t like being left out of the loop, and he really can't blame the guy. But it’s more than the team and it’s more than Natasha and him leaving, and Steve has to at least know that.

“If it makes you feel any better, we didn’t tell Coulson everything either.”

Steve grins and holds his beer out, so Clint lets himself clink his bottle against it. It’s not much, but he figures it’s a start.

Getting Natasha from the communal living space to her apartment is quite possibly the hardest mission of Clint’s life. It doesn’t help that he’s had a few too many beers himself, and he’s honestly surprised that Natasha has the capability to press all of the buttons on the elevator not once, but _three_ times. He’s too tired for this.

“No,” he says firmly, and slaps her hand away from where she’s been about to do it again. If it was anyone else she probably would have killed them, but she just leans against the wall and bats her eyelashes at him. “Nope. Not cute.”

“Am so cute,” she pouts.

“We gotta go all the way up _again_ ,” he tells her. “Don’t you wanna go to bed?”

“Clint, I want snacks,” she says. “All snacks in bed. So many.”

Natasha only ever speaks like this when she’s wasted or feverish, and Clint almost wishes he were dealing with the latter. But then she falls into him with a giggle that makes his heart soar and he can't help but wrap his arms around her waist, pinning her to his chest.

“You got any in your kitchen?”

Natasha frowns. “In my fridgerator? Nope.”

He bursts into laughter as the elevator, finally, mercifully, comes to a stop on her floor, and then has to deal with the task of getting her out the door. She drags her feet the whole way, dislodging a heel and scuffing the wall. Clint doesn’t care. Nothing can ruin this feeling.

“Snacks,” Natasha whispers as they stumble past the kitchen. “Need ‘em. I know!”

She twists out of his arms and stumbles over to the bookcase in her living room. Clint watches in exasperation as she yanks a book off the shelf and opens it up, and instead of pages there are _bags of candy_. The noise he makes is embarrassing.

“Snacks,” Natasha says reverently. “ _Told_ you. I’m the best spy.”

“Right,” Clint says. He can't quite tear his eyes away from the Twizzlers. “You win. Let’s go to bed, Tasha.”

“I got this _pacifically_ for you,” she croons. The bag of Twizzlers flies across the room and hits him squarely in the chest. “If you tell one person I’ll cut you in half.”

Clint smiles at her muddled language and bends to retrieve the Twizzlers. Natasha is silly and soft after cocktails and vodka shots, but no matter what she always thinks of him too. The fact that she’s gone almost a whole year without showing him the snacks is impressive. She _could_ technically still cut him in half too, but. He’s more worried about getting _her_ into her room in one piece.

“I’m not saying a word,” he says, ignoring the slur in his voice. “C’mon, I’m gonna beat you if you don’t hurry.”

Natasha narrows her eyes and begins to jog in the direction of her room, arms laden with treats and steps uneven. Clint picks up anything she drops until they’re finally in her room; he dims the lights, asks Jarvis to close the blinds, and when he turns around again she’s fallen face first onto the mattress

“What’s the word for one?” he asks as he fumbles with her remaining shoe.

“So many,” Natasha mumbles. “ _Uno_ , _eins_ , _um_ , _odin_ …”

“Shoe.” Clint yanks and the heel comes off her foot. He tosses it aside and then flops onto the bed beside her. “I meant shoe.”

Natasha sticks her tongue out at him, leaning closer and closer until the tip touches his nose. He blows air at her face and reaches up to pull her hair loose. It falls in red waves down over her face, brushing his cheeks and filling his head with the scent of her lavender shampoo. It’s almost too perfect. But then he hears a bag rustle, and Natasha reaches up to drop a jellybean into her mouth.

“I love the beans,” she says quietly. “Don’t tell Stark.”

“I won’t,” Clint whispers back. “Pinky promise.”

Natasha hooks her pinky through his and shakes vigorously, then pours an insane amount of the jellybeans into her mouth. She chews with half-closed eyes, a tired smile pulling her lips up at the corners. Clint breaks into the Twizzlers and scoots himself back until he finds a pillow for himself, and he ends up running his fingers over the crown of Natasha’s head as they eat.

“Rogers is onto me,” Natasha says suddenly. She rolls onto her back and the jellybeans fall to the floor. “He’s thinking we have sex.”

“We do have sex,” Clint frowns.

“Rogers doesn’t know that he really _does_ know,” Natasha says. Her brows crumple and she stretches out to poke him. “Is this in English or Russian?”

Clint laughs and opens a bag of pretzels he finds amongst the pile of snacks spread across the bed. “You’re speaking English, but it’s vodka English.”

“Oh yea,” Natasha says, as if he makes perfect sense. “Where are you?”

“Behind you,” Clint answers patiently. “You want me to grab some water and Advil?”

“Nope, you can do it later. I want to grab _you_.”

Natasha doesn’t quite pull off the backflip, but before he knows it she’s on top of him, limbs heavy and sharp. He kisses the top of her head on impulse and then runs his hands down her back, fingers playing with the zipper to her dress. She looks gorgeous in the lighting but he doesn’t have the words to tell her.

“I like our big fireplace,” she tells him. “So warm. All the windows. Our house is, like… almost as big as this tower.”

“Almost,” Clint says. “I like our big house too.”

Natasha burrows into his chest, and he feels her rubbing the short hair at the back of his neck between her fingers. He wants to ask her if she enjoyed the party, because he hadn’t really seen much of her throughout the night, but he’s sure it can wait until tomorrow. Pepper had congratulated him in secret, and he had managed to ease any of his previous insecurities about the team not liking him, so he considers it a win-win for himself at least.

“I know a secret,” Natasha says, lips brushing his ear.

“Oh yea?” He asks. “Wanna tell me?”

“Love is warm too… like toast,” she whispers. “With jam.”

It stops him for a moment, and all he can do is stare at her and hold her cheeks in his palms, trying to think of what he can say that will mean as much as what she’s just told him. Five or six years of warm love like toast and he knows that he’s got a lifetime of it to come. No one knows this Natasha and he’s so, _so_ lucky, and he’ll never get over it.

She kisses him before he can reply, and it’s sugary sweet beneath the alcohol he tastes on her lips. They end up fucking amidst the snack pile, all sharp elbows and giggles and sloppy drunk kisses, and then they fall asleep curled together much later: happy and sticky and _warm_.

Natasha’s idea of a hangover cure involves beating his ass in the gym. It’s not Clint’s favourite tactic, and as he crashes to the ground again he wishes he had pushed the Advil a little harder on her last night. A second after his back connects with the floor she lands on top of him, putting him in a headlock that he doesn’t even try to escape.

“Yield,” he stutters, and when she lets him go he just stares at the ceiling, wondering if his head is swimming from lack of oxygen or because he’s still probably a little drunk. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

Natasha sits beside him, panting. “You getting old on me, Barton?”

Clint snorts. “No way sweetheart. It’s called alcohol poisoning.”

Natasha looks paler than usual, and Clint knows that she’s feeling the effects of last night just as bad as he is, if not worse. She’s putting on a pretty good show of being fine, though. He figures it has something to do with the fact that Steve’s boxing and Bruce is meditating at the other end of the gym. For all they know, she had a pretty easy night.

“You drinking that?”

Clint glances at his half-empty water bottle and shakes his head no. Natasha yanks it from the floor and skulls what’s left, then stretches one leg out in front of her and touches her toes. It won’t be long before she crashes now, but Clint’s already too far-gone. He doesn’t even know if his legs work anymore.

“Where you off to tomorrow?” Clint asks when he’s almost sure he won’t throw up.

“Slovakia,” Natasha replies. “Do you know how long Fury’s been trying to get me there?”

“Too long,” Clint mutters. Slovakia wouldn’t be a problem anymore if SHIELD had just sent someone else, but apparently Natasha’s language is flawless and she’s the only one for the job. “I’ll be in Gibraltar next week.”

Natasha considers him for a moment, then shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. I’m going to be in Monaco at the end of the month, but I’ll switch my flight to land in Missouri.”

Clint shakes his head. “I mean you can, but I’ll still be in Gibraltar.”

Natasha huffs and narrows her eyes at Steve, who isn’t boxing nearly as hard as he was a minute ago. Clint doesn’t know how good a Super Soldier’s hearing is, but he does turn around to give him a pointed look when he sneaks a glance at them. For someone who works in intelligence, Steve can be painfully obvious.

When the punches pick up in intensity again, Natasha turns her glare to him. “Fine. Look’s like we’re meeting here again.”

“We’ll get back to the farm, Nat,” Clint assures her. “We got time. So much time, in fact, that I think we could go to bed right now and it wouldn’t even matter.”

“I’m not hung-over,” Natasha says, then rolls her eyes at the look on his face. “Whatever. The room is spinning but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” Clint grunts. He wills his body to get up, and surprisingly his legs straighten beneath him. “If you spend the day in bed with me I’ll give you two orgasms.”

“Only two?” Natasha snorts. “Please. I could do that myself.”

Clint stands for a minute to catch his breath. The room _is_ spinning, and if Steve is listening now then Clint doesn’t really care. He just wants his bed and a litre of water and a bunch of Advil. Maybe some pizza if he gets peckish, but hotdogs will do too.

“Five orgasms and I’ll wash your hair in the shower,” he offers. “Alternatively, you can trade an orgasm for a back rub.”

He can see the exact instant Natasha decides that moving is worth her while. He holds his hand out to her and yanks her to her feet, watching her eyes widen minutely as she adjusts to being upright. If it’s possible her face becomes even paler, but she’s grinning and doesn’t look like she’s in too much pain.

“I’ll take the back rub,” she tells him. “You can pick the movie.”

The next time Clint sees Natasha he’s got a bandaid plastered over his nose and a chunk of flesh missing from his thigh. None of it really hurts anymore but he lets her fuss over him for longer than normal. He missed the feeling of her lithe fingers dancing over his skin.

They order Chinese and sit side by side in Natasha’s bed, and it’s like all of his pieces are back together. Gibraltar had been smooth sailing until the last 24 hours, but the whole time he was away he felt like he was missing something, and it wasn’t like anything he had ever experienced before. He doesn’t know what it means but he’s not one to dwell on things like that.

“Are you going to have your report finished tomorrow?” Natasha asks around a mouthful of BBQ pork. “Or am I going to have to lock you in your apartment all week?”

“I don’t make promises.” Clint waves his chopstick at her. “Especially when I have a sore nose.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You’ve had bones outside of your body before, Barton.”

“Eh,” he shrugs and stabs a piece of her pork. “I don’t remember that so it doesn’t count.”

“Pepper took me shopping,” Natasha says. “I bought a lamp.”

“Nice,” Clint replies. “For the bedroom?”

“For the living room,” she says. “It’s a standing lamp. I also bought a piano.”

Clint chokes. “You what?”

“It’s a nice piano,” she stresses. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

“Sure it is,” he says. “Where the fuck are we gonna put a piano?”

He can picture exactly where she wants to put it, though. There’s an alcove beneath the stairs that was built as though it was always supposed to have a piano there, so it kind of works out well, but still. Neither of them can play piano, unless Natasha’s improved since the last time SHIELD tried to teach her.

“Just you wait,” she says, smiling sweetly. “It’ll grow on you.”

If it keeps that look on her face, then he knows he’ll love it, too.

Clint wakes up slowly, feeling the bright sunlight across his chest and face. He stretches a little and feels Natasha move beside him, and he’s just turning to pull her body against his when she suddenly vomits all over his chest.

“Sorry,” she moans, flopping back onto the bed. “I don’t feel well.”

Clint takes a moment to process the fact that there actually is vomit all over his chest. Then, he methodically peels the sheets away from their bodies, giving Natasha a once over to see if there’s anything externally wrong with her. Her face is ashen, brow sweaty; without waiting he pulls her up from under her arms and drags her into the shower seconds before she vomits again.

“All good,” he says. He takes her shirt off and throws it into the corner of the shower, then does the same with both of their underwear. Once the water is warm he pushes her under the spray and tries to ignore the smell. “No biggie. Just… spew.”

Natasha retches again and Clint gags, even though it’s nowhere near the worst thing he’s ever seen. It’s not even the first time he’s seen Natasha vomit, but usually she’s a lot better at aiming it away from him. He steps under the spray and washes the slimy mess off his chest. He looks away when it gets stuck at the drain.

“Ugh,” Natasha mutters. She sits on her ass and pushes her wet hair out of her face, tilting her head up to see him. “I feel like shit.”

“You look it,” he tells her, frowning. “We’ll take your temperature when we get out. Might’ve been the pork.”

“You had the pork too,” Natasha reminds him. Her face pinches and a second later she’s hunched over again, vomiting up chunks of said dinner.

Clint pulls her hair back and crouches to rub his hand up and down her spine. He had actually eaten more pork than she had in the end, but he feels perfectly fine. It wasn’t like it was even old takeaway; Noodle Paradise has been their go-to for fried rice and orange chicken ever since they moved into the Tower, and it’s never made them sick before.

When it becomes obvious that Natasha isn’t going to be done anytime soon, Clint steps out of the shower to find her phone. He dials Fury because he knows she was supposed to be helping run a mission out of Somalia today, but there’s no way he’s about to let her go in. Not when she literally looks like death warmed up.

“Barton,” Fury says immediately. “Care to explain?”

“I’m gonna pretend like you said hello,” Clint says. He wraps a towel around his waist and leans against the doorframe, watching Natasha critically. “Wanna tell me how you knew it was me and not Nat?”

“Not particularly,” Fury says.

“I text him,” Natasha calls through the shower door. “Emojis, mostly.”

“You have ten seconds Barton.”

“Right,” Clint says. “She’s not coming in today. Bad food poisoning.”

As if on cue, he hears Natasha gag again. There’s not much left for her to bring up but her body seems intent on dislodging at least one organ in the process. He makes a mental note to get her some ice chips to help her undoubtedly sore throat.

“I’ve seen that woman bring down an entire organised crime ring with food poisoning,” Fury deadpans. “You can do better than that.”

Clint remembers that mission well, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. “Gimme a sec.”

He cracks the shower door, holds the phone out towards Natasha, and lets Fury listen to her retching for a solid minute. When he puts the phone back to his ear, he’s greeted with the dial tone, and it’s as close as he’s going to get to an answer so he takes it. Natasha lets her head fall back against the shower wall and gives him a look.

“I’ve been planning that for months.”

“You really wanna hurl all over Fury?” Clint asks. He reaches into the shower and switches it off, then helps her unsteadily to her feet. “Temperature and bed, princess.”

Natasha rolls her eyes but allows herself to be dried and helped into new pyjamas, then lies diligently in bed while they wait for the thermometer to beep. Clint puts a trashcan by the bed and frowns when he reads her results: she’s perfectly fine, which doesn’t ease the worry that’s started to prickle across his skin.

“Wonder what it was?” Clint says. “Maybe a bug?”

“I feel fine now, Barton,” Natasha says. At the doubt on his face she holds a finger up to stop him from cutting her off. “I’m not just saying that to go to work.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Clint mutters.

“Maybe it was the food,” Natasha says, and pushes the covers back to swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Too much MSG usually makes me bloated.”

“Okay, but you’re not exactly bloated,” Clint says. “You were vomiting.”

Natasha turns to the side and lifts her shirt up, and Clint hates to admit that the usually taut skin across her abs is a little rounder. Maybe it _was_ just a bad reaction to MSG. He knows he won’t be able to stop her from going in now, so he just rolls his eyes and lets her shimmy past him to the wardrobe.

“Call me if you get sick again,” Clint yells after her, but if she responds he doesn’t hear it. Sometimes she’s too tough for her own good, though he does feel a little better knowing that she’ll only be sitting in a control room all day. Besides, she _can_ take care of herself. What’s a little vomit here or there?

“Remember all the sex we’ve been having?”

Even with her cheek pressed against the toilet lid, Natasha’s glare could still slice him in half. “I’m not in the mood.”

“No,” Clint backtracks. “I mean, you remember it right? At the farm. Plus the night at the party, the day _after_ the party…”

“Your point?” Natasha snaps. Her face crumples and she turns back to the toilet, but just ends up spitting into the bowl. It’s a brief reprieve from the absolute shit show that had been this morning, though Clint knows they’ve not quite reached the end of what is fast becoming their morning ritual.

It’s two weeks after the takeout ordeal, and even though they haven’t ordered in since then, Natasha has still been sick; Clint isn’t convinced that she didn’t catch some weird disease from her last mission, but he’s had a lot of time to think about things whilst Natasha is hunched over somewhere. He’s not dumb, just oblivious, apparently.

“It was pretty unprotected,” he says eventually.

He can literally see Natasha’s brain working overtime to connect the same pieces that he’s already connected. The expression on her face shifts minutely from annoyance to nausea to unbelievable surprise. Then, she spends the next thirty seconds violently vomiting in what Clint has come to learn is her grand finale.

“Fuck,” she says when she’s back to hugging the toilet bowel. “You need to get me a pregnancy test.”

Clint falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a while. Getting out of the Tower is no big deal, but having to walk back in with a pregnancy test might just send him into early retirement. He thinks over who could be here and comes to the conclusion that he can just shove the box in his jacket and no one will know anyway. That’s if his body will actually let him move.

Forty minutes later Clint sits on the ground in the bathroom across from Natasha. She guzzles another bottle of water then throws it as his head, hard. He probably deserves it for taking so long, but there had been far too many choices and then he had ended up in the candy section anyway. He was already at the store. It would be a waste to not get some snacks.

“You gotta pee yet?” he asks.

Natasha glares. “I can’t do it on command, Barton.”

She probably can, but the amount of nervous energy radiating from her is making Clint nervous, too. He thinks about the vomit he still hasn’t cleaned off the kitchen floor from this morning to take his mind off everything. It’s probably cold and crusty now. The apartment hasn’t smelt the same for days.

“Finally,” Natasha mutters. She takes the test from the box and flicks the directions at him, and he reads them while she pees on the plastic stick. When she’s done she hands him the test and he takes it out to the bedroom to wait.

Usually, they’re both pretty good at waiting. But not even a minute after she’s flushed the toilet Natasha is peeking at the test, eyes squinted as though she’ll be able to make out what it says before it actually says it.

“Not gonna make it work faster,” Clint tells her gently.

She huffs and sits beside him on the bed. “I just want to know.”

“If it’s not this then we need to get you to a hospital ASAP,” Clint jokes, but it falls flat. “I mean, what else can it be?”

“And what if it is?” Natasha whispers.

She looks scared. Clint is scared too, hasn’t ever really felt this kind of blind anxiety before, because it’s something neither of them has ever trained for. Jumping out of planes and running into gunfire sounds a hell of a lot easier than the test being positive.

“Then we talk about it,” Clint says. “We figure it out.”

“I never thought…” Natasha’s voice wavers and she clenches her hands beside her on the bed, not looking at him. “I didn’t know it would be something I might want.”

“We never thought about it cause we didn’t have the time,” Clint shrugs. “New York changed things, Tasha.”

“I know,” she says. “Fuck. What are we doing?”

“Talking bout it now, I guess.”

Natasha nods and unclenches her hands to lie in her lap. Her fingers twitch towards her stomach and Clint feels the sudden urge to reach out and touch her too, but he senses that it will be the wrong move to make in this moment. The timer on his phone blares and Natasha jumps up and then she’s holding the test and Clint’s holding his breath and it feels like a lifetime before she turns to him.

There’s surprise on her face, and something that strangely looks like hope.

Clint says, “Good thing we have all those spare rooms, then.”

Fury’s not stoked. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“C’mon, sir,” Clint mutters, feeling his cheeks burn just a little.

Natasha sits forward in her chair beside him. “We had unprotected sex.”

Clint considers climbing into the vents so he can leave the conversation. It’s not that he’s embarrassed around Fury, it’s just that he’s kind of become something like a weird, scary father figure to Natasha and their meeting feels akin to being in the principal’s office. He doesn’t really want to get into the details of how Natasha got pregnant. Especially not with his boss.

“Cute,” Fury deadpans. “Didn’t think that one through.”

“Obviously not,” Natasha says. “I have a proposition.”

“This should be interesting,” Fury mutters, but crosses his arms over his chest and gestures for her to continue.

“I want a year off field work, subject to re-consideration by the end of the twelve months. I’ll work logistics from Missouri unless directly needed in New York and Clint _will_ be there for the birth in May.”

Fury considers them for a minute, his one eye passing between each of their faces. Hearing their plan out loud makes it kind of more real than it has felt for the past month, but it also settles something in Clint’s chest. Before all of this he had agreed to a mission over Christmas and Natasha was technically supposed to be undercover at the start of the New Year, though they’ve changed plans with less notice before.

Besides, deciding to keep the baby had been a lot easier than Clint had thought it would be. They just had to have their house finished in time, or else Stark Tower would have a new resident that he was sure Tony would find something to complain about.

“I’m losing my best agents to domesticity,” Fury says incredulously. “Unbelievable.”

“You know I can't stay still for long, sir,” Natasha assures him. “I’m sure our vacation time will cover it.”

Clint can't remember the last time he took a vacation. “Besides, she’s not that far along right now. So we can work all day. Nat can even do some basic groundwork.”

Natasha doesn’t like the idea of being completely benched, but they’ve managed to come to something of a compromise. SHIELD has enough missions on the backburner that she’ll probably be able to work through nearly all of them over the next few months.

“Anyone else would have their asses handed to them,” Fury says sternly. “I’m giving you this because you managed to pull those fucking superheroes into line.”

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Natasha says. She stands and leaves the room quickly, and Clint smiles softly as he watches her go. It falls from his face though when he realises that Fury is now glaring at him.

“She’s gotta pee a lot,” Clint offers lamely. “Pee or vomit.”

“I don’t need to know that,” Fury says. When Clint doesn’t move he gives him a pointed look. “You’re dismissed, agent.”

“Right.” Clint frowns and stands, then turns back to his boss. “Isn’t there usually a write-up?”

“You better leave before I change my mind Barton,” Fury tells him. Clint’s at the door when he hears the Director’s voice again. “Coulson would be smug. He won the pool.”

Clint smiles softly and tries to imagine Coulson’s face. He likes to think he would be proud, too.

Clint rests his head right by Natasha’s stomach and stares hard at the bump that apparently _isn’t_ MSG related bloating but an actual, real-life baby. She rubs his hair absently between her fingers, intent on whatever chapter of whatever book she’s reading this week. They’ve spent far too much time locked away on Natasha’s floor and he’s honestly surprised that Stark hasn’t sent a robot after them yet.

“Got a fact for me?” Clint rubs his nose against her skin and feels the muscles jump.

Natasha hums. “It’s the size of an orange.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “Naval orange?”

“It doesn’t specify,” Natasha answers. “Did I eat all the jellybeans?”

Clint takes a bean out of the bag and pops it into her mouth, then drapes his arm across her lap and burrows against her side. He’s going to be in Puerto Rico soon for much longer than he wants to be, and he knows that when he gets back Natasha is going to be even bigger than she is now. She’s going back to the farm and he just wants to go there instead and help her finish painting, but they _did_ make a deal with Fury and he’s not keen on breaking it.

“What else does baby do?” he mumbles.

“Smiles. Moves. Do you think we could go for a walk?”

Clint doesn’t much feel like moving, but he uncurls himself from Natasha and grabs his jacket anyway. She’s wearing a soft turtleneck that’s just tight enough to show the bump that protects their baby.

“Our baby,” he says, grinning like a fool. “You wanna take bets?”

“On what?” Natasha snorts.

“How long it takes the team to figure it out,” Clint answers. They leave the bedroom and head to the elevator at the kind of pace that feels equal parts familiar and unfamiliar. “Hundred bucks that Stark doesn’t notice until the baby’s born.”

“He’s going to notice straight away,” Natasha counters.

“You’re on,” he says.

Which is how Clint finds himself buying $100 worth of Russian takeout for Natasha on their walk back to the Tower. He almost thinks she cheated except Tony and Pepper’s reaction as they ran into them in the foyer was too good to _not_ be true. Stark’s already announced it to the whole Tower with a banner that reads _I Told You So_ and Clint can't believe they actually have to go back there now and see it.

“You better update me when I’m in Puerto Rico,” Clint grumbles.

“Of course,” Natasha replies simply. She walks with a hand over her stomach, protective without even realising it. “No one else will be excited when it grows another inch.”

“I’m gonna miss so much,” he says sadly. “Why couldn’t we bargain me into this whole year-off scenario?”

“You can't dump something like that on Fury. He’ll have a heart attack.”

Clint snorts and threads his fingers through Natasha’s, enjoying the feeling of the fresh air on his face and her soft hand in his. It’s weird to think that they could be just any ordinary couple on the street and not two professionally trained killers; at the start of the year they had their SHIELD quarters and a job that made them ache and bleed. Now, they have a house and a baby and time-off. It’s _insane_.

But it’s also warm, like toast.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Clint glances up from packing his tac bag to see Maria Hill standing in the door to his quarters. He likes Maria, mainly because Coulson had always vouched for her and she hadn’t immediately tried to shoot his brains out following the Loki incident, and he knows that Natasha respects her opinion too.

“News travels fast.” He shrugs and stuffs his vest into the side pocket. “Funny that, considering the business we’re in.”

“Natasha told me,” Maria says. “We had wine with Pepper. Well, she had juice.”

Clint snorts. “Nat would’ve hated that.”

“She sounds excited,” Maria tells him. “How about you?”

Clint has felt a whole range of emotions since finding out about becoming a father, but he’s finally settled on something that’s close to what a drug-induced high feels like. He’s not thinking about the expenses of buying a house and having a baby at the same time anymore, he’s just focusing on the fact that it’s happening and it’s more than he could ever have asked for.

“Still wrapping my head around it,” he answers honestly. “I think we’ll be fine though.”

“You guys can adapt to anything,” Maria says. “It’s the one thing Coulson always preached.”

Clint’s eyes still burn when he thinks about Coulson, even though it’s been a year. The blame had been heavy at the beginning, and it had taken months of self-pity and depression for him to finally realise that it wasn’t his fault. Natasha had been by his side the whole time, dragging his sorry ass to a cabin in the middle of nowhere so he could decompress, and it had helped more than he would ever have guessed.

So maybe that’s why the house in Missouri has become their home. It’s safe, it’s away from civilisation; it’s the place they can go when they need to stop and breathe and remember how far they’ve come. He’s never realised the connection before but it makes sense. He wonders if Natasha had seen it the first time they pulled into the driveway.

“You coming to Puerto Rico?” Clint asks to change the subject. “Heard it’s gonna be boring.”

Maria smiles and shrugs. “Depends where you go. I know a killer karaoke bar.”

Natasha’s face is grainy on the small screen. “You’d think you would be better at this by now.”

“Christ, woman,” Clint says. “You wanna give a man a break?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. She looks good, even though the quality of the video call is shit. Clint can only get reception if he sits on the roof and holds his phone off the side, so. He’s been dealing with that for the last two weeks.

“Your child won’t give me a break,” she mutters. “It’s the size of a sweet potato.”

Clint whistles. “That’s big. What’s he doing in there?”

“Kicking me in the ribs. The aim is impeccable.”

Behind her he can just make out the living room in the Missouri house, which is actually their _home_ he reminds himself absently. Natasha must have finished painting, because there’s no drop cloths covering the new furniture she’s bought and for once she doesn’t have paint all over her face.

“What can I say?” Clint smiles. “You wanna give me a tour?”

Natasha sighs and he watches as she pulls herself up off the ground, taking a minute to breathe and mutter threats at him in Russian. Then she flips the camera on her phone around and walks him through the house; the fully furnished living room, the kitchen that actually has a stove now, the piano in the alcove and the bed in their room.

There’s still a lot of work to be done but he can see the foundations of it all now. Natasha’s done more than he thought she would, though he figures she’s probably bored of not having any real tasks to do. Even his feet get itchy when he stays in one place for too long.

“Looks great,” he comments. “You got anything for baby?”

“A little,” Natasha replies. She sits on their bed and points the phone at the dresser. “I sanded this back and added new knobs.”

“I like it,” he agrees. “You’re crafty, Romanoff.”

“Not likely,” she retorts. “Just bored.”

“Only another nine days,” he reminds her gently. “Then I’ll be home.”

“Good. I have a list of things that need doing.”

Clint laughs. It feels good to laugh after weeks of protective detail. After the whole ordeal with Thor and the Tesseract the first time Clint wasn’t sure Fury would ever assign him to watch anything again, but he’s at a SHIELD base as backup just in case. Christmas was lonely and he still hasn’t found the perfect gift for her.

“When do we find out the sex?” he asks. He needs to think of something else before he gets too sad.

“I can now, if you like,” Natasha says. “I want to know.”

“Yea, I think I do too,” he says. “I also want to spend one whole day with you in bed when I get back. Heavy on the making out.”

“Three orgasms and you have yourself a deal,” Natasha says seriously. Her face pinches and she shifts slightly, the camera going out of focus. “Oof. I have to pee.”

“You can take me to pee with you,” Clint suggests hopefully. He’s not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

“I also have to shower.” Natasha smiles softly and he notices for the first time just how tired she looks. “Nine days.”

“Nine days,” he repeats. “Get some sleep, Tash.”

He watches the screen go dark and stares at his reflection for a long time. Then he lies on his back and watches the stars, letting the air warm him up. It’s only another nine days. No big deal.

The rug is nice and very, very expensive. Clint raises his eyebrows and Natasha gives him her sweetest face without removing the straw from between her lips. She’s on her third Slurpee of the day and Clint’s quickly realising that finding a toilet for a pregnant woman is something like an Olympic sport. The pressure is _immense_.

“You really want this one?” he asks again.

“Yes,” Natasha replies. “It’s soft.”

“For the baby’s room?” The rug is grey, but he’s pretty sure it’ll still look nice with the yellow walls. They’ve given the bedroom with the huge window to the baby, but Clint hasn’t actually been up there to look yet.

“Maybe,” Natasha replies cryptically. “Anyway, it’s an investment.”

“Whatever you say,” Clint mutters. He’s freshly back from Puerto Rico and still trying to make up for the fact that he made her cry when he commented on how big she’s gotten. “Anything else we need here?”

Natasha casts her eyes around the small furniture store and shakes her head. “We just need kitchen supplies.”

Clint is impressed by how much Natasha had done when he was away. The whole house is painted and clean, and she’s managed to pick up enough furniture to make it look like people actually live there. There’s artwork and new light fixtures and even the start of a small vegetable garden out the back. He just needs to fix the porch and install a new toilet in the downstairs bathroom and they’ll nearly be done.

“Then lunch,” he says. “Then bed.”

They leave town after three more bathroom trips with far too many pots and pans, a rug that cost more money than Clint wants to think about and yet another Slurpee. Natasha puts his hand on her belly as he drives and he can feel bumps and kicks that make him forget how to function. She’s just over halfway through the pregnancy but he’s impatient to meet the baby, even if he also wants it to stay inside where it can be safe forever.

Natasha unpacks the kitchen supplies while he lights the fire and drags the rug into the living room. He waits impatiently for her to organise the drawers, pacing back through all the rooms downstairs to keep himself occupied, eventually finding a squeaky door that he can oil to make it feel like he’s doing something useful.

“Ready,” Natasha says when he’s elbow deep in the bathroom sink. He’s not sure if it actually was broken before he started fiddling with it, but it definitely is now. “What have you done?”

He wipes his hands on his pants and beams. “Don’t worry about it. Show me these rooms then.”

Natasha’s fingers twitch on the door handle to the baby’s room. Clint stands behind her and gives her the time she needs, because even though it’s just him this is a part of herself that she’s had to learn to live with and sharing it always takes more than she lets on. Natasha has worn many names and none of them have been _mother_.

“I haven’t finished it,” she whispers. “I wanted you to help.”

Clint nods. “I’m right here, Nat.”

She opens the door and steps in, and the first thing he notices is the warmth from the sun, the window flung wide open and the curtains fluttering softly in the breeze. There’s a white crib and a rocking chair and dusty pink walls instead of the yellow. He breathes it in deeply, imagines a baby growing with love.

“It’s a girl,” he says eventually. “We’re having a daughter.”

“Yea,” Natasha says softly. “Here, I have this.”

She takes a framed photo from the dresser and hands it to him. It’s an ultrasound photo, probably the latest one judging on the size of the baby, the one that he had missed because he was working. He stares at the tiny face and feels the drug-induced high sweep over him again.

“I just wanna kiss you right now,” he says, and does. He pulls Natasha as close as he can and kisses her like it’s the first time he’s ever felt her lips. She melts into him and pushes him out of the room backwards, never breaking their kiss, the two of them stumbling along blindly to their bedroom across the landing.

There’s a bed now, a dresser and a huge mirror that she’s leant against the wall. Clint can smell lavender from the ensuite and is pulling her shirt over her head before she’s even hit the bed, tearing his lips away from her to press kisses against the lace of her bra. Natasha sighs at the sensation, then moans as he pushes the material aside to find more skin, and he can feel her hand reaching behind her to unclasp the bra.

“Missed you,” she breathes. She works on his pants next, and he lets go of her tits long enough to help her. He pushes her underwear aside and finds her clit, watching her arch off the bed, and it’s not long before she’s falling apart beneath him and he’s kissing her again, swallowing the last of her moans.

“Missed you too,” he tells her. “We got a while though.”

“I _want_ you,” Natasha says. Her hand finds his cock and he lets his head fall back between her breasts as she strokes him slowly, teasingly. “You owe me two more.”

He’s not one to break a promise. Besides, they have the bed now. It’s about time they make their home official.

Moving the old tractor from the front yard isn’t really a job that Clint wants to do. He’s bored though, waiting for Natasha to come back from town, and he’s finally finished off the railings on the porch so there’s not much else to do. He has dinner ready on the stove and chairs pulled out to the fire pit they’ve made out back, and moving the tractor should keep him busy enough until she gets back.

Turns out, moving a tractor is something that Clint doesn’t actually know how to do without a truck, so by the time Natasha does come home he’s set up a target on a tree and is practising his aim to let out his frustrations instead.

“I got you something,” she calls to him.

He sees her bundle something up in her arms and it takes him a full minute to realise that it’s not a baby. He lets out a breath and swings his bow over his shoulder before crossing to meet her halfway.

“Merry Christmas,” she says, even though it’s mid-February and she actually got him new poison tipped arrows for his real gift.

“Holy shit,” he says, and then louder again. “ _Holy shit_.”

It’s a puppy, all silky golden fur and floppy ears and big, brown eyes that make Clint want to melt into a puddle of mush. The sounds he makes when he accepts the puppy from her are embarrassing but he doesn’t care. Her smile is warm and bright and the puppy is licking his fingers and he’s gonna be a dad in like two months and he has a _home_.

“Figured we could use the practise,” Natasha tells him. “Besides, what’s a farm without a dog?”

The puppy sleeps on Clint’s lap in front of the fire that night. Natasha finds great joy in balancing her plate on her stomach now, though the baby usually ends up dislodging it a few times. She’s got about half a bottle of mayonnaise on her hotdog but he’s not about to comment on her eating habits again. The last time he did, she made him sleep on the couch.

“What about Eloise?” he says.

“Cute, but it might confuse people,” Natasha answers. At the look on his face she frowns. “It’s a boy puppy, Clint.”

He blinks at her. “I’m talking about the baby.”

“Oh.” Natasha shrugs and swipes her finger through the mayonnaise, licking it off indulgently. “Eloise Barton.”

“Eloise Barton-Romanoff,” he corrects. “Eh. Now I don’t know.”

“Ophelia,” Natasha suggests.

He screws his nose up. “That’s a little too fancy. What about something Russian? Svetlana?”

“You’re just saying that because it’s the only Russian name you know.”

“Is not,” Clint protests. “Anastasia?”

“You want to name our daughter after a dead princess?”

Clint huffs and leans back in his chair, scratching the puppy’s ear absently. They haven’t really thought about names before now, haven’t really thought about anything beyond Natasha actually being pregnant. There’s been ultrasound appointments but he doesn’t really know what a birth plan is. Does she need one or can they just wing it?

“Zoya is Russian,” Natasha says after a moment. “But I don’t think it fits.”

“Yea,” Clint agrees. He has no idea the type of person his daughter will be and it feels a little premature to be thinking of names. Maybe they should just wait until they meet her. “Should we try naming the puppy first?”

Natasha nods, mouth full of hotdog. The sky is tangerine tinged, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, and the fire burns steadily before them. Clint has a bag of marshmallows ready for dessert and a future spread out before him that’s beyond what he ever hoped. Missouri is beautiful with her and she glows in the light, brightening everything around her. As long as he goes where she goes, he’ll find himself with a home.

Their last day in the Tower is much more bittersweet than Clint had expected. The team sits in the communal living area, drinking and eating and generally having a good enough time, and he knows that Natasha is happy because she can put her feet up and eat as much cake as she wants and no one will even think of teasing her for it.

She’s sandwiched between Tony and Pepper on the couch, grinning as they bicker over the top of her belly. Clint sits besides Steve and Bruce has perched himself the furthest away, as though he’s worried something will happen if he gets too close to the baby. Natasha isn’t afraid of him anymore, but those first tense months after Loki hadn’t really helped him feel welcome.

“So, what are you having?” Pepper asks, finally giving up on trying to reason with Tony.

“We totally didn’t take bets,” Tony says, and Pepper’s smile drops so quickly that Clint is legitimately worried for Stark’s life. “Hey! What else was I supposed to do now that we know they’re boning?”

“A girl,” Clint answers. It feels weirdly nice to tell other people. “She’s gonna kick your asses.”

Tony and Steve’s faces fall but Bruce looks quietly pleased with himself. Pepper rolls her eyes as the men hand over the money, and Clint can’t help but laugh about the whole thing, laughing until his sides hurt and his vision swims.

“Shouldn’t count cause he’s a doctor,” Tony mutters.

“I’m so excited,” Pepper croons. “We bought you something, actually.”

“We did?” Tony asks, but Pepper’s already leaving the room to go find the present. He gets up and follows her and they can hear his voice trail after him. “Pep? What did we buy?”

“Congratulations,” Steve says. “The world could use some good news.”

“Thank you,” Natasha smiles.

“I don’t think anyone expected this,” Bruce says quietly. “Not that it’s really that surprising.”

“Domestic life wasn’t something we ever really planned,” Clint shrugs. “We’ll still be around, cause it’s a hard thing to shake. But it’ll just be… different.”

“I’m going to beat the crap out of you once she’s out,” Natasha says to Steve, then turns and points her finger at Clint. “You too.”

“What did I do?” he says incredulously.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re seriously asking me that.”

Thankfully, he’s saved by Pepper and Tony returning. They’ve got far too many gifts for Clint to feel comfortable accepting but Natasha is more than happy to tear into every single one of them. He sees diapers and bottles and an Iron Man teddy bear and a gorgeous framed ballet print, and all of it makes him realise that they’ve found a family amongst this bunch of misfits. Despite their differences, despite everything they’ve been through together and all of the distrust they’ve had to overcome, they’ve still stayed together. It’s dysfunctional, but it’s _real_.

“We’ll miss you,” Steve says earnestly. “But we’ll be happy to have you back whenever you’re in town.”

“If we knew where your house was, we could always visit _you_ ,” Tony tries. Clint remains tight-lipped. Some things they’re not ready to share just yet.

Later, Natasha stands in her underwear and lets Clint take a picture of her belly. He wants to remember every moment from this time, from the new stretch marks across her hips to the fierceness of her hair, which has grown longer and started to curl below her shoulders. When he’s done she sheds her bra and pads over to the bed, lying beside him with difficulty.

“You okay?” he asks when she finally settles.

“There’s a little discomfort around my hips,” she admits to him. His fingers go there immediately, as though he’ll be able to ease it just by touching her. “She’s ready to come out.”

Clint knows that the baby is in the birth position now. He’s stocked the bookcase with everything from _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ to _Parenting with PTSD_ and he thinks he’s almost ready to be a dad. Natasha’s read everything twice, has even been speaking to an online counsellor and it feels like they can't be more prepared if they tried.

“She’s gotta try to wait a little longer,” he says softly. He leans forward until he can press his lips against her hard side. “It’s nicer in there, baby girl.”

“I can’t wait to have my body back,” Natasha says. She threads her fingers into his hair and scratches gently. “I need to run.”

“If you’re anything like your mama, I’m gonna have my hands full,” Clint says to her belly. “I can't wait to meet you and count all your little toes.”

“You can paint her nails when she’s older. Teach her archery in the backyard.”

The puppy they’ve officially called Lucky whines from his bed on the floor. Clint tears himself away from Natasha for just long enough to scoop Lucky up and cuddle him to his chest. The puppy licks his face and then snuggles between them, falling asleep almost instantly. He doesn’t know what it says about them as people that they’ve given their dog the most basic name known to man, but he thinks they’ll do better when it comes to their actual kid.

“Such a pushover,” Natasha teases. Her eyes are closed and he knows it won’t be long until she’s asleep. “You’re gonna be a good dad.”

“You’re gonna be a good mum.” Clint pulls the cover up over her bare front and leans in to kiss her forehead. “Not long now.”

“We’re having a shot when she’s born,” Natasha breathes. “I want the good stuff. Straight from Russia.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Clint chuckles. He lets his head fall back against the pillow and commits the bedroom to memory. He’s sure that they’ll be back to the Tower some day, but for now it feels a little like goodbye.

The baby is late. Clint isn’t surprised considering Natasha’s own stubbornness, but he doesn’t really like to see her in pain and she’s probably seconds away from driving herself to the hospital and demanding they just take the baby out then and there.

“We can go for a walk down the drive?” Clint suggests.

She turns to glare at him from where she’s pacing. “I don’t want to go outside. It’s cold.”

It’s not cold, but Clint’s not game enough to argue with her. They had decided to keep the too-expensive rug in the living room instead of dragging it upstairs to the baby’s room, and now she’s about to wear a track in it. He’s lost count of how many times she’s rearranged something in the house over the last week, too. At this rate, they’ll have all new furniture before the baby even arrives.

“You want me to make you some dinner?” he asks. “I can reheat that curry. Or you can just eat hot sauce off the spoon again.”

“I just want…” Natasha trails off, lower lip wobbling. She hasn’t cried much throughout the pregnancy, so seeing the tears now feels like a blow to the gut. “Why didn’t she come on time?”

“She’s a baby,” Clint assures her, and pulls her into his chest. “She’ll come when she’s ready. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“It hurts,” she mumbles, and the admission of pain is enough to alarm Clint. “I’m so tired. My feet are swollen. I need to _pee_ …”

It’s as she says this that Clint feels liquid on his feet. He’s not really bothered considering she’s thrown up on him before, but he knows she’ll be embarrassed about it. He’s getting ready to reassure her that it’s nothing a shower won’t fix when he realises that there’s almost _too_ much of it to be pee.

“Fuck,” Natasha says. “My water just broke.”

Clint groans. “It’s all over the rug. Oh my God, I spent nearly a thousand dollars on this thing and now it’s –”

Natasha pushes him in the chest. “Get the hospital bag before I strangle you.”

The drive to the hospital is surprisingly calm, but all hell breaks loose when they arrive. Natasha won’t admit how much pain she’s in but he can see it on her face, the way her features pinch and her brow becomes slick with sweat. Once she’s tucked up in a bed he braids her hair out of her face and paints her nails to try and distract her. He tells himself it’s not to calm him down, too.

Apparently, their daughter is in a rush now. Not long after Clint recaps the polish bottle Natasha reaches full dilation, and sometime between then and the nurses holding their baby up she breaks three of Clint’s fingers. He has them taped while she nurses their daughter but he doesn’t even feel it; all he can see and hear is the baby in Natasha’s arms, the tiny pink thing that screams like the world’s ending.

“I did it,” Natasha says. She’s sweaty and tired but she’s never looked more beautiful to him. “Look. Look at her.”

“Hey baby,” Clint says. It’s all he can say. Their baby has the softest face he’s ever felt and ten little toes that are sweet like honey. He wants to bundle her up and carry her around forever. When Natasha settles her in his arms he thinks he might float away. “Hi, little girl.”

“We have a baby,” Natasha whispers.

“We have a farm and a baby,” he says. He runs his finger over his daughter’s cheek, watching her lashes flutter. “Who would’ve thought?”

They lay side by side in the hospital bed, Natasha naked except for the giant diaper they only just talked her into wearing and Clint with the baby on his chest. Natasha rests her head on his shoulder, watching through heavy eyes as their daughter sleeps peacefully. Clint’s taken so many photos that his phone is almost full. No one in the world knows except for them and he wants to keep the bubble intact for as long as possible.

“What’s your name, huh sweet girl?” he coos.

“I might have one,” Natasha mumbles. “Katie.”

“Katie Barton-Romanoff.” Clint tests the name and feels it stick. “Think you picked a winner, Tash.”

“Hmm,” Natasha hums against his skin. “Sorry about your fingers.”

“Sorry about your vagina,” Clint laughs. She had needed stitches in the end, though it’s probably not the worst injury she’s ever sustained. “I probably deserved it.”

“She’s so warm,” Natasha says. “It hurts, how much I love her. I can feel it like splinters.”

Clint understands the feeling. He smooths his hand over Katie’s downy hair and presses the lightest kiss he can manage to her head. She smells like heaven on Earth and looks exactly like Natasha, even if she swears she doesn’t see it. Katie will probably never do anything wrong, Clint can almost guarantee it.

“I know,” he replies. “Hey Katie, you know your mama’s a big softie?”

“And your daddy’s a big jerk?” Natasha teases. She kisses his shoulder and shifts slightly in discomfort. “You daddy’s actually the best man I know. He’s going to love you more than anything.”

Clint’s not ashamed to cry. He had cried when Katie was born too, except it had been bad timing because Natasha _had_ broken his fingers at the same time. He cries again now, so full of love and pride and happiness that it overwhelms him. Their whole lives have changed in an instant and he doesn’t want to look back, only forward.

All he needs is his two girls and his farm, and he figures he’s the luckiest man alive.

Clint finally has a truck, which by extension means he can finally, _finally_ , move the goddamned tractor off the front yard. It leaves a giant patch of dead grass and dirt that he’ll need to clean up, but for now it’s in the barn and out of the way, and that’s all that really matters.

Natasha’s in the front yard with Katie, holding the baby against her hip as she walks around pointing things out to her. Clint could watch them for hours; Natasha with a floppy sun hat and a smattering of new freckles across her shoulders, Katie with her fiery red curls and chubby fists that latch on to everything within reach. He starts to walk towards them, Lucky bounding at his heels.

“Look, Katie, this is a spider,” Natasha tells her. They’re standing by the birdbath, watching the arachnid crawl around the rim. “We don’t touch spiders. Yuck.”

“Oooh!” Katie squeals, which is her way of agreeing to things, apparently. She wiggles in Natasha’s arms until she sets her on the ground, then clings to her fingers as she takes unsteady steps across the grass. “Mama, mama.”

“I know,” Natasha says patiently. “You can walk now. You’re so big!”

“ _Almost_ walk.” Clint scoops Katie into the air again and listens to her giggles, flying her above his head like an airplane. “She’s still my little baby.”

“Dada!” Katie screams. “Shhh!”

“Down we go,” Clint says, setting Katie on her bottom on the grass. She immediately starts crawling towards the vegetable garden, her little body moving far too fast for someone her age. “Won’t be long until she really is walking, though. That’s gonna give me grey hair.”

“There’s no stopping her,” Natasha agrees. “This morning she hid in the wardrobe, and the only way I found her was by opening a packet of chips.”

Clint laughs so hard his sides hurt. “She’s a genius.”

“She’s your daughter,” Natasha snorts.

“And yours,” Clint says pointedly, because Katie has already climbed into one of the vegetable gardens and is ripping up carrots. “I swear to god, we could track _miles_ on this kid.”

“Mama,” Katie coos, holding dirty hands up in front of her. “Mama, mama, mmm. Up!”

“So you want me to hold you now?” Natasha asks, but lifts Katie up anyway. “It’s almost dinner time, _malyshka_.”

Katie is the spitting image of Natasha, and Clint will never get tired of seeing them together. They’re both too stubborn for their own good and he knows he’ll never stand a chance against either of them when Katie’s older, but they’re sweet too; he likes bath time and morning kisses and watching Natasha’s face light up every time their daughter does something new.

It’s been just over a year since she was born and Katie Barton-Romanoff already has everyone in her life wrapped around her little finger. Tony’s given her a pony and Steve follows her around like she she’s the most breakable thing in the world and even Fury isn’t immune to her cute smile. When she hands him a half-chewed piece of apple he’ll eat the rest of it, no questions asked. It’s disgusting.

Clint brushes his hand over Katie’s red curls. “How bout I race you inside, kiddo?”

Natasha and Katie win the race by a hair, and they settle into their usual night time routine with ease. Katie eats most of her dinner and throws the rest on the wall, and while Clint bathes her Natasha cleans up, and then the three of them settle in front of the fireplace so Natasha can nurse her before bed. It’s Clint’s favourite time of the day, the time of night when the hours seem endless.

“Katie was telling me her opinion on the conflict between Russia and the Ukraine in the bath,” Clint says. He lets Lucky jump onto the couch beside him and scratches the dog’s ears.

“Oh?” Natasha replies, then looks down at the girl. “Have you formed an opinion on dinner yet?”

Katie pulls away from Natasha’s breast, hand reaching up to rest on the soft flesh. “Nom, nom.”

“You don’t act like it tastes nice,” Natasha scoffs. “You can’t live off pizza, Katie.”

“Pzzshh,” Katie mumbles. Her eyelids droop but she fights sleep until the last second. “Dada, mmm.”

“I love you, honey,” Clint says. He presses kisses to her tiny feet and pulls her favourite blanket out from behind him, tucking it around her. “Sleep tight.”

Natasha moves Katie onto her shoulder to burp her, and then rocks her gently until she’s sure she’s asleep. “Love you, baby.”

They sit in silence, like old times. They don’t need to say much. They say so much during the day, to each other and to Katie; all these words that mean _love_ even if they’re just talking about the dishes or a bug or the colour of Katie’s poop. Clint can give Natasha one look and know exactly what she’s thinking, and now it’s been seven or eight years of loving her and he doesn’t want to change a thing.

They have their house in Missouri. They have their firecracker daughter with eyes like the ocean, their daughter who can lift them up and show them how wonderful the world can be. Grass and trees and the sun all have new meanings now. Clint sees a ladybug and his first thought is always about Katie, and he knows it’s the same for Natasha, too.

He reaches over to tuck her hair behind her ear. “We got lucky, Romanoff.”

Natasha beams at him, bright and brilliant. “We can stay here for a while, right? She doesn’t need to go to bed yet.”

Clint smiles too, pulls his girls into his side and looks into the empty fireplace. There are paintings and pictures framed on the wall around it; a collection of life, all of the things that Katie sees and feels frozen in time. It’s not a hot night, but they didn’t light the fire this time. They don’t need to.

The whole house is warm, like toast.


End file.
